


Consequences

by Rynfinity



Series: Out of the Mouths of Babes [3]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some who wander <i>are</i> lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Truths. It will make the most sense if you read Truths first, as it picks up roughly where Truths left off.
> 
> I doubt it's a surprise by now, but this isn't a very nice story.

"You'll get eaten alive, you know," Algrim tells him - not for the first time. When Loki just laughs and flips him off, two-handed, Algrim mutters "cocky asshole" under his breath and walks away.

On a good day Loki means it when he laughs in Algrim's face. He can do anything, after all. He's a fucking rock star. He was born to be fucking king.

~

Today? Today is not a good day.

~

He's out of money, yet again, and Malekith has cut off his line of credit. Which, taken in aggregate, means Loki’s gone far too long without a fix. And his jaw really hurts where this afternoon's john - who looked like an easy enough mark; a fat, nerdy slob, a pocket to pick in the hazy aftermath of yet another run-of-the-mill blowjob - hauled off and sucker-punched him.

It hurts badly enough, in fact, that Loki would cry - not even caring who might see - except he's too dehydrated. He's been puking his guts out ever since he got away from the customer-turned-attacker and dragged his beaten ass home.

Home. Hah.

Loki doubles over and mostly-dry-heaves into the wastebasket. He spits and wipes his streaming nose and tips the plastic container back and forth, surveying its contents. There isn't any blood in it, not this time. He's going to live, he's reasonably certain.

Woo. Fucking. Hoo.

~

"I'm getting out of this shithole. You'll see."

It's Algrim's turn to laugh. "Right, right. You're special. You have so many options, after all.

Loki drags himself back up to sitting with a pained groan. His head spins. "Thor will come for me," he says, trying valiantly to sound more confident than he feels. “Thor’s like that. He is,” he adds defiantly over Algrim’s snort, “I mean it.”

_Thor_. 

Thor, who thinks Loki is dead.

Thor, who does not frequent the city's underbelly, isn't coming for anyone.

He's certainly not coming for his worthless dogshit brother. But Loki, who can't even bum a fucking blade that he can use to end it all, has to cling to something.

"Get up, lazy," Algrim orders, and he's not laughing anymore. "The boss isn’t running a charity clinic, you know."

"Right. Like I can work like this." Loki inspects himself in the cracked mirror - black eye and bruised jaw set off nicely by a bleeding split lip and huge dark circles above too-sharp cheekbones. _On top of everything,_ Loki thinks, _I look like I reek._ He raises a thin arm, wincing as the movement stretches his scars. Oh, yeah. He needs a shower. Big time.

If only he wasn't shaking too badly to get his scrawny ass there.

"Oh, I don't know," Algrim disagrees, coming up behind Loki and twisting his battered face back and forth, studying the reflection in the mirror. "There's a definite market for this. You look hot," he adds, running a thumb not-nearly-gently-enough over Loki's bruises. 

"Fuck off," Loki mutters, not even bothering to tack on some pointless threat; he is utterly powerless to enforce much of anything just now.

Malekith's second in command smirks, swiping the same thumb over Loki's bleeding lip. "Really, really fucking hot," Algrim purrs, "except," - he laughs again as Loki tenses, shaking - "I know all too well exactly where that pretty little mouth has been. A guy’s got to have standards," he adds as he releases Loki with a hard shove. "Go take a shower. You stink," Algrim says by way of goodbye, not even sparing a backward glance as Loki stumbles hard against the dresser.

~

This is not how Loki thought things would go. Not at first, anyway.

Well, _at first_ he really wasn't thinking at all; he was too busy dying on the sidewalk in front of this place, this rundown, boarded-up hell on earth. But Algrim tells him that - after Malekith drove Thor off in the nick of time with an well-aimed near miss - some doc who owed _the boss_ a favor patched him up. It must only have been a small favor; the _good doctor_ has made rough use of Loki's mouth a couple of times hence, gratis, once under guise of taking out the sutures and the other after stopping by to drop off a prescription for the psych meds Loki ultimately sold - on a good day, back when those still happened - for another shot at getting high.

So anyway... this? This is not how Loki thought things would go. Not at all.

~

At first, the idea of being for all intents and purposes dead-and-reborn was exhilarating. Liberating. Amazing. Loki was finally, completely, indisputably free.

Free to start over again; to make a truly fresh start, even. No nuthouse. No prison. No _extensive history of suicidal tendencies._ No parents. No college. No rules.

No Thor.

It sounds perfect when you put it like that, even now. Absolutely fucking perfect.

In theory.

Theory is always absolutely fucking perfect.

Reality, on the other hand, flat-out sucks.

~

Like Algrim says, Malekith is not running a charity shop. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He has plans for Loki, plans based heavily on a pretty face, readily-marked alabaster skin, and a skilled mouth.

And that last bit? Not in any of the many the ways Loki prefers to consider his mouth skilled, either.

To top it off, loathe as he may initially have been to admit it, Loki quickly (though not anything close to quickly enough, clearly) comes to the realization his world has no anchor point without Thor. He flails about aimlessly, with no money and no purpose and no hope of escape.

And no way whatsoever to call for help, long after even he himself can plainly see - is forced over and over and over to admit - he really, really fucking needs it.

~

On a good day, Loki is still sure he will rise from the ashes.

There aren't many good days anymore.

~

Algrim appears in the doorway, catching Loki - lost in what passes for thought these suck-ass days - examining a rapidly purpling fresh bruise, fingers ghosting carefully over the painful spot where his skin-and-bones hip had caught the corner of the battered dresser.

"I'm not kidding, Loki," Algrim says, an edge in his voice that Loki has long since learned means business. Neither one of them is smiling this time. "Get in the shower and then get your fucking scrawny ass to work. Now."

Loki drags himself more or less upright - dizzy, barely managing to choke back a whimper - and staggers out into the dimly-lit hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How many times do I have to tell you," Thor growls. "I. Do. Not. Want. To. Talk. About. It!" It has been months - coming up on a year in just a few sad weeks - since he kneeled, helpless, on the crumbling sidewalk watching his brother die. Months, and he still cannot bear to think of that night. Cannot picture the scene without retching.

Retching, like he's doing now. Awesome.

"Sorry, man," Fandral says - and he does sound sorry - squeezing Thor's shoulder and offering a handful of nearly-new tissues. "But this is important. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't. I need you to confirm for me: Where were you, exactly, when your brother was shot?"

"Corner of Svart Alley and Asgard Place," Thor spits out, fighting not to picture Loki lying blee-." His stomach heaves horribly; he pukes for real this time.

Fandral gives him a few moments to recover, sitting patiently as Thor spits off to the side. Wipes his eyes. Blows his nose.

And then, with a pained expression, Thor's best friend in all the Universe drops a giant fucking gazillion-megaton bomb:

"I saw someone who looked _exactly_ like your brother" - Fandrall always carefully avoids Loki's name; Thor's not sure why, really - "turning tricks on Svart about an hour ago. Right near that intersection. He stared straight at my face, did a double-take, and took off on me."

"Turning tricks," Thor echoes, voice hollow.

"You know, picking up guys for-."

"Stop. Yes, I know." He can't bear to let Fandral finish.

~

They end up taking Sif's car; it's a beater - with her job at the hospice, it's the best she can manage - and she bought it after Loki was- was shot. It’s nondescript and nothing Loki’s ever seen before - they won't be caught out in it.

~

It doesn't take long. They circle the block twice, slowly - it's a warm night; the street is full of people shopping for drugs, for a piece of ass, for both combined - and sure enough, there he is.

The man - because it clearly _is_ a man, despite the wide-mesh fishnet stockings, the stripper heels, and the tiny, dark-colored fake-leather booty shorts - leans tiredly against a streetlight. He's smoking a cigarette, one heel up on the concrete pedestal. While his face is hidden by a curtain of long, dark hair, it doesn't matter - Thor is _absolutely certain_.

Heart in his throat, he whispers "right at the next light. We'll circle around behind him and nab him" in Fandral's ear. There isn’t any reason to whisper – it just seems like the right thing to do.

And off to nab Loki they go.

Thor doesn't bother thinking through what will happen after that.

It, too, doesn't matter.

~

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you take your hands off my property," the big man in the shadows – while Thor can't see his face, the guy has a bar bouncer's build – says mildly. He could be asking about the weather.

Loki, who had up until then been struggling for all he was worth, goes utterly limp and quiet at the sound of the man's voice. That does it; in that instant Thor's choice makes itself.

"He's my brother, asshole, not your property. And regardless of what you may be stuck insisting, he is coming with me." Loki is still limp against him; Thor can feel the frail body shivering.

"I can't let that happen, Odinson," the man says, stepping into the circle of light just enough to show Thor the shining muzzle of a handgun. "He owes the boss a lot of money."

Thor plunges recklessly on - at this point, what's to lose? "Well, considering you seem to know who I am, I suspect you also know I can fix that particular problem."

~

Malekith frowns, arms crossed. "I should kill you both, you know, and your idiot friend here." He gestures across the dimly-lit, dirty room towards Fandral, who stands handcuffed and frightened-looking in the corner. The bodyguard - _Algrim,_ Malekith calls him, and the name sends a jolt of horrified recognition through Thor - grins. "It would be simpler. Cleaner."

Thor briefly considers playing the daddy card, settling instead on sticking with the money one. "How much cash will it take to change your mind?"

The figure Malekith asks is less than he expected, really. He hands it over, letting both Algrim and Malekith see his own holstered gun in the process.

Nothing bad happens, surprisingly. Malekith shakes his hand, as if they’re two ordinary businessmen, and it seems they’re free to leave.

~

In the end, it's the possessive, condescending way Malekith kisses Loki goodbye - "Be good, pet. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again before too long." - that nearly shatters Thor's resolve.

It's a close call - a false step would surely end all their lives, but he can't- he can't even.

Somehow, he manages to keep his cool. Barely. And, now that the money has changed hands, no one makes any attempt to stop them as they leave the building.

“Thanks, man; I owe you,” Thor says – and means it – as Fandral drops them off at Thor’s car.

~

There are many things Thor _should_ do.

He should take his brother to the hospital.

He should take him back to jail, but he knows that’s one thing he cannot make himself do.

He should take him home and wash him. And _then_ take him to the hospital, wrapped in warm blankets… and let the staff there deal with taking him back to jail.

Thor does none of those things.

What he does do, though, is certain to haunt him forever.

~

"Get out of those clothes and wash up," he demands, firmly but nicely, once they are safely inside his apartment.

Instead, Loki snuggles against him, clinging tightly. "I don't want to be alone," he rasps, nuzzling into the angle where Thor's neck meets one big shoulder. Loki smells of smoke, and dirty rooms. And Malekith. That last wakes something fierce in Thor; a powerful, territorial animal urge to reclaim for himself what is only ever his. To take back what is rightfully his own; to mark it, to re-stake his claim for once and for all.

Loki is silent and compliant as Thor tears at his cheap streetwalker's clothing and shoves him face-down on the bed, not making a sound despite the rough fucking until Thor bites deeply into the wasted muscle of one shoulder - just above the badly-scarred exit wound that mars the slender white plane of Loki's back - and tastes blood.

At that, Loki moans.

It's not loud, or particularly pained-sounding, but it stops Thor cold.

"God, Loki, I- I'm so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking," he lies. He rolls off his brother, pulling Loki close against his chest, and lies there panting. Crying, big silent tears that drip into his brother's messy, sweaty hair.

"Don't be," Loki says quietly, and then – almost too faint to hear - "I missed you."

"I love you," Thor blurts out, even though he knows he has no right to.

Loki laughs softly. "I, on the other hand, am incapable of love," he whispers, but he kisses the inside of Thor's wrist just the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad choices have repercussions. Repercussions lead to bad choices.

"It-... it isn't working out the way I expected," Thor tells Fandral over a beer, "at least not so far." His little brother dead to the world in bed, Thor has opted to sneak out for a quick drink. For a much-needed break from _babysitting_. "He hates everything," he continues sadly. "He's so angry all the time."

Loki has come back from the gates of Hell with a new outlook, that’s for sure.

What Thor wasn't counting on? That it might be the worst outlook Loki's had in, well, forever.

~

"I need you to get out of bed and do some laundry." Thor pulls the pillow off Loki's face. “Sometime today.” When his brother grabs the thing back - even now, Loki's reflexes are nothing short of astounding - and manages to yank him off balance, Thor loses his temper. "Get the fuck out of bed, lazy ass. Now. Or else,” he threatens. “I'm not your fucking maid."

Loki glowers. "No, that you most certainly are not. You're my _fucking_ parole officer. Literally. Fucking. Get it? Or are you still telling yourself nothing hap- _FUCK,_ Thor! Jesus." He rubs the side of his face, fingers pale against the red imprint of Thor's open palm. "You asshole." He pulls the pillow over his face again.

Thor has _had_ it. He grabs Loki by the wrist and drags him unceremoniously – not to mention ungently, but Thor is fucking _done_ \- to the edge of the bed. "What the fuck is your problem?"

His brother laughs, sharp-edged and bitter. "Do you want the easy answer or the whole list?" When Thor doesn't respond, not trusting himself to say anything further just now, Loki mutters "dickhead" under his breath. But he hauls himself out of bed just the same, cursing and sputtering, and sets about throwing his dirty clothes in the basket.

As Loki bends over to pick something up off the floor, Thor barely stifles a gasp. His brother is still shockingly, sickeningly thin, every rib and every vertebrae standing out in sharp relief. The bones look ready to tear through his delicate skin. As he stretches, reaching for a sock, the lumpy red scar ripples. Thor feels himself tearing up. "I'm sorry," he says for what feels like the millionth time.

"You like to hit me. And throw me around. You need it. I get it." Loki's voice is flat. Toneless.

Thor swallows hard and says nothing. What can you say to something like that, really?

~

"The doctor wants to talk to you." They're at a clinic, at Thor's insistence, getting Loki checked over – the mostly-healed gunshot wound, anything else the doctor might find concerning - incognito. The look on Loki's face promises trouble.

"Why," Thor asks. "I'm not your mother. Or your keeper. As you so very regularly enjoy reminding me."

Loki shrugs as he pulls his shirt back on. "Go ask him yourself, why don’t you."

~

" _Chlamydia?_ What?? Why would you- where would I-?" Thor is incredulous. Horrified. Terrified, even. Never in his life has anyone-. His stomach lurches. The room spins a little.

"Your nameless friend here listed you among his sexual partners," the doctor explains. "You need to be tested. We can do the testing now – as anonymously as possible, although we do have to report all cases to the health department - or you can go to your own physician. Whichever you prefer is fine. I realize this is inconvenient,” the doctor continues as Thor frowns, “but I’m afraid I have to insist: You do need to be tested and treated as soon as possible."

 _Whichever you prefer._ Thor’s ears are ringing. He would _prefer_ to die right here and be spared even _having_ this conversation. "Now is fine," he says through clenched teeth. It's not. It's not fine at all. "But excuse me for- um- give me just a moment. I'll be right back."

~

They fight in the car like they haven't in years; not since before Thor left for college. "You gave me a fucking disease, you filthy slut," Thor screams, face inches from his brother's. "You piece of garbage. You couldn't even fucking warn me?" He has Loki by the shoulders, shaking him roughly.

Loki's teeth clack together. "Warn you? When? When we were talking about fucking? Ohhhh, right, we _didn't_ talk about it. I guess I must have missed the part where you asked my permission somehow."

All of that is entirely beside the point. "You should have told me you weren't- clean," he roars, voice deafening in the closed space.

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time you rape me," Loki spits back.

That stings. Thor should back down - he knows it - but he can't. Not after all this. "That isn't the point. You- you-...", he trails off, so mad he’s speechless.

"I'm a whore, genius. What did you think would happen? Oh, right," - Loki sneers at Thor from where he's wedged against the door - "you didn't think. They make these cool things to help with blind stupidity," he goes on, voice breaking as Thor shakes him again, smacking his head hard against the car window. "They're called condoms. You may've heard of them. They're great for fucking filthy strangers."

That snaps Thor out of it. _But you're not a stranger,_ he thinks, knowing all the while - deep down - it's a lie.

~

When they're done _talking_ Loki has a black eye and a necklace of bruises matching Thor's fingers. Blood runs freely from one nostril, across parted lips and teeth, and drips off Loki's sharp chin.

Thor apologizes, over and over. Loki laughs like a mad thing.

~

He goes back inside alone, with the car keys. If the doctor notices his patient is now sweaty and breathing hard, knuckles bloody, he wisely keeps his comments to himself.

~

The swab _hurts,_ and Thor has never been so humiliated in his life. Even if he lives to be a hundred, he is never having sex again. Ever. Not with Loki, not with anyone or anything.

As he leaves, the doctor hands him a bright purple package of antibiotics.

~

"Consider yourself lucky. At least this is curable," Loki points out back in the car, dryly, snuffing back a noseful of blood. He waves his own matching pack of antibiotics, the box crushed a little in their earlier fracas, in front of Thor. "We're twinsies."

Thor is not feeling lucky. Or amused. Not in the least. "Lucky, Loki? Really? Some dude just stuck a swab up my _dick_ and you say I'm lucky? Fuck you." He slouches in the driver's seat, arms crossed tight across his heaving chest. The whole thing is ludicrous. Mortifying.

Loki smiles as he inspects his nails. "Think of it like sounding and it seems nicer."

Thor has to look the term up on his smartphone. The images make him shiver.

He's not sure if he should be more concerned - and embarrassed - by how he isn't familiar with this- this _practice_... or by how Loki clearly is. "You are so fucking weird," he blurts out, opting to hide his discomfort behind disdain.

Loki grins. "It takes one to know one, no? Isn't that what they say, _brother?_ "

~

The next day Thor goes back to work - even Odin's golden son can only take so much time off without suffering the repercussions - but finds himself all but unable to concentrate.

 _You have to stay here while I'm gone,_ he'd instructed Loki earlier. _I mean it. You have to. If anyone finds out you aren't dead, you'll be headed right back to jail,_ he'd explained in the face of Loki's cocked eyebrow, knowing all the while that this- this was really the least of his numerous fears.

Loki'd yawned. Stretched, showing off a long expanse of belly that shouldn't have been nearly so appealing, taking into consideration both his scrawniness and his surname. Yawned again. _And what am I supposed to do with myself while you're gone all day,_ he'd asked, reaching under the covers to scratch lazily at something Thor'd sternly reminded himself did not set his own cock twitching 

_Sleep. Eat,_ Thor'd suggested, with a trying-to-seem-disgusted glare at Loki's naked torso. _Watch my TV or surf on my computer? I'm sure you can find something,_ he'd said over his shoulder as he'd headed for the door.

Thor _is_ sure, which is precisely the problem.

~

With Loki awake more of the time, now that he has all day to sleep and his battered body is finally starting to heal, Thor knows sneaking out in the evening isn't really an option. Instead, in need of a little break, he invites Fandral and Volstagg over for a card game. And drinks.

Drinks he should probably keep Loki out of, but doesn't.

A few hands in Loki - who has been, up until now, pointedly ignoring them from the couch - closes his book and stands, stretching. Even without half meaning to, Thor can't help but notice the way Fandral's eyes follow his brother as Loki pads out into the hall.

"Don't," he warns.

Fandral shrugs.

~

Loki is gone a long time before the flush of the toilet heralds his impending return. When he comes back into the den, surprise surprise, he's obviously high. His whole demeanor has changed; he's peaceful. Soft. Not the least bit Loki-like at all, actually.

_FUCK._

"What took you so long," Thor asks quietly, fighting to keep his temper under control. His heart is pounding so hard he's surprised his friends can't hear it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Loki waltzes up to the card table and stops between Thor and Fandral, trailing long fingers along the padded edge. "Stupid antibiotics are killing me," he replies - _lies, fucking lies_ \- as he turns and settles catlike onto Fandral's lap. "I have an STD," he says brightly to room in general. "And Thor here-."

" _Loki,_ " Thor threatens, leaning forward across the table.

"-was nice enough to take me for treatment," Loki finishes sweetly. "Is something wrong, brother?"

 _I hate you, you rotten, evil little motherfucker,_ Thor thinks, absolutely furious. "No," he grits instead. "Sorry, guys. Where were we?"

Across the table Loki slouches comfortably against Fandral's chest and lets his head drop back. "It's not contagious like this," he says, so close that his pretty pink lips brush Fandral's ear. "Don't worry. I promise. I just can't fuck until my prescription is gone."

Fandral laughs, letting Loki nuzzle the side of his face.

Thor sees white for a moment. He shakes his head violently; when he glares back over at his brother, Loki's popped back up to look Thor in the eye. They stare each other down, Thor seething and his brother grinning, until – without further warning - Loki twists to pull Fandral into a sloppy, noisy, open-mouthed kiss.

Everyone's drinks spill as Thor leaps to his feet, big thighs whacking the tabletop. The cards fly everywhere. Thor doesn’t fucking care.

"Loki, go wait for me in the other room. Now," he barks as Loki scrambles to his feet and takes off half-running, half-staggering. "I'm sorry, guys," he manages to pull himself together enough to tell his friends. "But I think it would be best if you left."

They do, with admirable speed and silence. As Thor carefully closes the door behind them, though, he overhears Fandral: "Fuck yeah,” his friend tells Volstagg, laughing, “I can totally see why people would pay for that. Hell, if it wasn’t for how his brother would fucking kill me, _I_ would pay for that"

After the door latches, Thor puts his fist through the drywall.

~

"Does this mean we're exclusive? I didn't realize." Loki is sitting on the bed - on Thor's bed - in just his baggy sweatpants. His eyes glitter.

Thor ignores the question. "You're lit," he accuses.

"You had pain pills." Loki shrugs. "I was bored. And drunk. Am drunk," he adds with a dainty hiccup. "So," - he gestures between them - "we're exclusive?"

" _We_ are nothing. There. Is. No. Fucking. _We,_ " Thor bellows, spit flying.

He's still furious enough to convince himself the startled flash of awful pain across Loki's face - in the split second before his brother's expression settles into a blank mask - means he’s _winning_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life gets complicated, especially when you won't let people live it.

"Why would I _ever_ let you take my car?" It's such a ridiculous question that Thor can't really even find it in himself to get angry. Loki has to be joking.

"Because I need to get to the clinic. Which, I should point out, was _your idea._ " Loki's petulant tone is just short of full-on whining. Okay, not joking then. Seriously?

Thor studies himself in the mirror - he needs a shave; fuck it, it's Thursday evening and that's almost the weekend - before letting his eyes refocus and fixing his gaze on Loki's reflection instead.

Sometimes he's surprised Loki even _has_ a reflection. Or is it _shadows_ demons don't have? Or is that vampires? He can't remember. Incubi and succubi and all that.

His brother's arms are folded loosely across that pale, naked chest, one almost covering the deceptively small hole where the round that very nearly ended it all made entry. Loki runs a neat pink tongue slowly over his ripe, cherry-red bottom lip, so slowly Thor can _taste_ it. "Please?"

"NO," Thor snaps, forcing his eyes back on his own scruffy face. "You have no driver’s license. You're a convicted felon. You're an addict. And to top it off you're legally dead." He laughs, probably more derisively than the situation truly warrants. "Why would you even ask me something so stupid?"

Out of the corner of his eye Thor catches movement in the mirror. "Fine, then," Loki says testily from the general vicinity of the doorframe. "If not, I'll just have to-… never mind."

Thor whirls to face his brother, just as Loki slips out the bathroom door. "You’ll have to what? Hey! Get the fuck back here," he yells - impotently - into the vacant space where his little brother was literally _just_ standing.

~

The door buzzer sounds, its battered speaker popping loudly. Thor looks around for Loki, then barks "What?" into the intercom grille as the stupid thing buzzes again. "Who is this?"

_Is there a Mr. Laufeyson here?_ It's a woman's voice. A girl's, more likely, judging from the sound. _This is Sigyn,_ she explains when Thor doesn't reply. The speaker crackles; her finger must have shifted on the button. _He called me a few minutes ago,_ she continues, louder. Closer to the microphone. Her voice drifts up before each pause, turning each sentence into an inadvertent question.

The floor creaks behind him and Thor whips around (yet again; he spends a fuckton of time _whipping and whirling and jerking around_ these days, thanks to the perverse mockery of a babysitting gig his life has become). Loki holds out his smartphone - the one on Thor's contract, complete with a very generous data plan to help stave off baby brother's boredom... see: _babysitting gig comma perverse mockery of_ \- like a shiny black olive branch and mouths _meth lab_.

Thor grimaces. His ever-so-darling brother insists on calling the methadone clinic the meth lab, for no reason Thor can discern save to annoy him. And, sure enough, it does. Every time. Thor clenches one hand's worth of fingers into a painfully-tight fist and jabs at the intercom button with the other’s. "What do you want?" He’s being rude, but it’s late and she’s imposing.

And he’s seriously annoyed with Loki, but taking it out on this _Sigyn_ girl is easier.

Safer.

_I'm sorry, sir,_ \- over the crackle of the speaker she sounds awfully meek to be out ringing strange doorbells this time of night - _but I need to speak with Mr. Laufeyson. Is he here?_

Thor shoots Loki his best _one false move and you die, asshole_ look and then buzzes the clinic girl in. "3B," he yells into the speaker, rather unnecessarily; she rang the right buzzer, after all.

"Laufeyson," he asks quietly as they wait for Sigyn to climb the long flights of stairs that grace the center of Thor's Victorian-era apartment building. He isn’t sure he’s ever heard Loki’s birth surname casually spoken aloud before.

"Plausible deniability," Loki whispers with that crooked smile that would _be doing things_ to Thor if only he was still letting it.

Which he isn't.

Much.

~

"I'm really not supposed to do this, you know; drop stuff off and all." She stands on the doorstep, really just a fidgeting college-aged kid, worrying the top of a well-worn paper lunch bag between delicate fingers. She's nondescriptly blonde and pink and pretty in a way that utterly bores Thor... right up until he turns and spies the expression on his brother's face.

When neither Thor nor Loki offers a reply, or even a greeting, she draws herself up and bravely starts again. "Hi, I'm Sigyn. Which of you is Mr. Laufeyson?" When Loki makes an affirmative little hum she turns to him, face scrunched in conspiratorial sympathy. "Is this the brother you mentioned," she asks, gesturing with her head in Thor’s direction.

Before Loki can answer Thor steps forwards. "Hi, Sigyn." He puts out a hand. Shakes hers. "I'm Thor. Loki's brother," he tacks on, forgetting about confidentiality and anonymity and all the lawyerly HIPAA stuff Loki likes to throw in his face in his rush to get between this girl and his brother.

"You do understand, Mr.- _Thor,_ that your brother needs his medication, right?" She may come across as timid and unassuming, but something about her still manages to be thoroughly unnerving. He feels like she can see straight into his filthy, twisted soul.

But maybe it's just that she works - volunteers, probably - with all the stoners and the crack-heads. Bleeding-heart do-gooder and all that.

"Yes," he says. He owes her nothing further. He shifts a little, blocking the way as Loki tries to squeeze past him.

Sigyn frowns, pale brows wrinkling. "He said you wouldn't bring him to the clinic, even though he was in crisis," she lectures.

Thor looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked. "Crisis," he mouths silently. Loki shrugs.

"I'm sorry. I think we had a bit of a misunderstanding." Thor holds out a hand expectantly.

"It's okay," Loki reassures her as she hesitates. "You can give it to him. It's fine." Something in his voice makes Thor's skin crawl. He almost jerks back from Sigyn as she hands him the bag.

~

They don't talk – not at all, not so much as one word - about the whole business afterwards; Thor simply gives Loki his dose, first dumping the pills out of the bottle and counting them, and then rubs gentle little circles over his brother's bony back until the shaking stops.

About the time Loki dozes off, Thor discovers he still can't touch the scar without crying.

~

After that night, Thor drives Loki to the clinic. He usually tries to do it on his lunch break, or on his way to court. When Loki false-jokingly – or maybe he actually is joking; with Loki you never really know, after all – asks if he's intentionally timing their visits for when the girl won't be there, Thor laughs. "Of course not. I just like to get you out of the apartment and into the sunshine."

From the look on Loki's face, they both know Thor's lying.

~

He comes home from work one night, a couple of months later, to find the place quiet. Peaceful. Too quiet; too peaceful. Normally Loki is sprawled three-quarters naked in front of the TV, geared up to piss and moan about how _late_ Thor is and how _boring_ this life is and... today? Nothing.

Thor checks his phone. Nothing.

Stomach in his throat and heart pounding, he creeps quietly through the apartment searching for- for anything. He doesn't even dare pray Loki isn't- he can't even fucking let himself think it.

"Nnn."

It's a tiny sound, one he has heard many times before, and – despite his frazzled, short-circuiting nerves - it goes straight to his groin. Thor pads silently down the hallway to the bedroom, at war with himself, by equal parts drawn to and sickened by the stifled moans and gasps and little wet noises. Noises that say Loki is jerking himself off, slender fingers wrapped around his-.

-but just as Thor starts through the doorway, with far too much momentum to abort, he hears something else entirely: "Oh, Loki, yes," high and breathy. "Right there. _God._ Oh!"

_Fuck._

Thor half-skids, half-falls around the corner and sure enough, there's none other than Sigyn herself - head thrown back, mouth open, skirt hitched up around her waist – sprawled across his bed, caught in flagrante delicto. And there, too, is Loki, bright green eyes peeking - first wide and startled, then quickly infuriatingly _knowing_ \- up over Sigyn’s stomach from his perch between her spread, pink-splotched thighs.

For a few moments everything is frozen in time. Then: " _GET OUT,_ " Thor roars as the erstwhile lovebirds scatter, followed immediately by "Oh no no, not you," as Loki goes for the door. Thor shoots out a big hand to catch his brother by the throat. "You," he growls at Sigyn. "If I see you near my brother again I will- I will-..." He doesn't even _know_ what he will do.

"He told me what you do to him, you know," she spits back as she hurriedly tugs her clothing into some semblance of order. It's more spine than Thor expects from her. Still.

His temper is fast reaching the point of no return. "Just get the fuck out of my apartment," he hisses.

"If you actually want him to get better, _you_ should leave him alone. You- you make me sick," she says, and then "'bye, Loki," in a tone of voice that makes Thor want to slap her, but she goes. 

"She just wants to help me," Loki offers as the door slams, He's wrenched free of Thor's grip and is backing carefully away along the wall.

~

"Go wash your face, you little slut," Thor orders. "You smell like her."

Loki laughs, composure regained; he’s all vicious sarcasm again. "Well, yeah, when you eat a girl out that happens. Surely you know that," he says, _pushing_ , "courtesy of Sif. Or Jane. Or you would, at least, if you weren't always so busy fucking _me_." He ducks as Thor swings wildly. "Why do you care, anyway, brother," he asks as he ducks again, barely escaping Thor's reach. "There is no we, remember?"

"Go wash your face." Thor's voice is quiet this time, but deadly.

Loki actually does as he's told.

"Brush your teeth, too," Thor yells after him.

~

"You said we weren't exclusive," Loki sobs quietly, big tears streaming down his pale cheeks. "You said you didn't want me. You said we were nothing." Loki sucks in a wet, clogged breath. His pale face is streaked and smeared with blood, from a jagged cut over one eye where Thor's ring caught him, and his throat yet again sports a reddened necklace of finger-shaped marks. The eye that's not bloody is puffed, swollen half-shut already. Thor doesn't even remember hitting him there. "What did you expect me to do," Loki asks, swallowing hard and then coughing.

_To stop fucking tempting me,_ Thor thinks, but of course he can't say that. Like it could ever happen anyway. He says nothing, instead reaching out a big hand - gentle, now; sorry - to wipe away the tears and blood.

~

"I love you," he pants as Loki - one eye black, neck bruised, hair floating like black feathers around his shoulders - bounces frantically on Thor’s cock like there's no tomorrow.

And really, if there _is_ no tomorrow, he’s not sure he can bring himself to care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor gives himself a wake-up call.

"You really do need to think about getting that temper of yours under control, you know," Sif suggests, idly stirring almond milk into her coffee. _Think about_ … by which, of course, she means he actually has to _do_ it. And Thor knows that, he does. He _thinks about it_ all the time, after all, and where has that gotten him?

Pretty much nowhere.

He heads off to work, where he finds himself able to _think about_ little else.

~

The evening starts out unremarkably enough. Sif is over and they’re sharing Chinese. Ever since the business with Fandral Thor has been more selective when it comes to visitors, and Sif consistently seems to be the safest bet: She is immune to Loki's considerable charms - has been ever since he managed to hack off her hair with a pair of pinking shears in grade school, if not before - and has long since given up flirting with Thor as well (she still claims he will come to his senses one day and marry her, but she isn't the breath-holding sort; Sif goes on with her life). It's a lazy sort of evening, too... no charge in the air, everyone just hanging out.

The Chinese goes fine. The movie goes fine. So, too, do most of the good-old-days stories. In fact, Thor is having the best evening he's had in a long time.

Right up until Loki lets it slip that he has a fake ID, that is. He digs it out of his clothing somewhere and passes it to Sif, who whistles long and low. "This is top-shelf ," she says, flipping it front-to-back in her hand. "Really high-quality work. You must have paid a pretty penny for this one. Nice," she adds, as she starts to pass it back.

Loki - Loki who hasn't got a penny (pretty or otherwise) to his fake name... who was until only recently turning tricks down in the slums to pay back what he owed his dealer/pimp... who _answers to Thor_ for everything these days, no matter how often he conveniently forgets it - has the nerve to laugh. "Top of the line," he brags. "This guy is a fucking magician. Seriously. He’s amazing."

Thor lunges for the little card, but Loki is too fast; he has it out of Sif's fingers before Thor can even reach her. "Ah-ah, brother," Loki chides. "This is mine."

Thor's ears start to buzz. "Nothing is yours, brother, and don't you dare forget it. You belong to me now. I fucking own you. Now hand it over."

"Both of you, stop it," Sif orders before Loki can respond. "Try acting like civilized adults for once in your lives, please? Don’t make me hurt you."

She's smart enough not to step between them, however brave her words. Thor looms over Loki, who stubbornly scrambles to his own feet. "You _fucking own_ me," he repeats, tone hostile and eyes flashing. "I think not. Now back the hell off," he demands, bringing both palms to Thor's chest and _shoving._

He manages to get his brother to stagger back a half-step, but Thor is a lot heavier and at least as angry. He whips his own hands up, knocking Loki's away, and shoves back with all he has.

Loki sprawls across the sofa but he's up again - right in Thor's face, screaming - before Sif can even hope to intervene. Normally he knows not to fight back; not this time. He pummels Thor's chest and shoulders, too close to get a good hit in. He's still yelling, sure, but Thor is in the zone now and it all washes over him like so much static.

Thor’s brother is a little wild animal; a threat, and he needs to be neutralized.

The first time Thor swings Loki ducks. It’s a smart move and Loki gets away with it, almost, but the effort leaves him awkwardly off-balance and flailing like a crooked windmill in a fruitless attempt not to fall.

His momentum carries him sideways, not back and away. Thor, more than capable of winning with either big fist, comes in from the opposite direction with a powerful roundhouse that strikes with the force of a club.

~

Thor is so full of adrenaline that he feels like he's watching the impact in slow motion. He can actually see Loki's jaw deform around his own knuckles, saliva and blood spattering out in a broad drippy arc, long before the sickening crunch makes its way to his roaring ears.

Loki drops in a boneless heap. This time, he stays down.

~

Thor and Sif face off across Loki's motionless form, both breathing hard. She finds her voice before he can: "See what I meant earlier," she asks, and then "That was kind of disgusting." She looks at him for perhaps another half a minute, expression unreadable, before shaking her head.

It's about then Thor realizes two things: He's shivering violently, head to toe, and he's going to vomit.

He barely manages to make it to the kitchen sink.

When he skulks back into the living room, face wet and throat burning, Sif is kneeling at his fallen brother's head. Loki is curled on one side, a puddle of drool and blood and a little puke slowly spreading across the hardwood. "Sh-sh," Sif soothes. "No, please don't try to move. No, baby, I'm serious. You have to stay still. Shh. Good. Just let me see how bad this is."

Thor watches silently from the doorframe as she works her way methodically over Loki's neck, back and shoulders – talking quietly, her voice low and calming, all the while - before finally coming up to check his head. Loki tolerates her hands on the back of his skull fine but when she checks his face he flinches hard and makes a sound like a dying rabbit.

It sends Thor right back to the sink.

~

"This needs to go to the hospital, Thor," Sif states in a flat, take-no-prisoners tone Thor knows better than to challenge. Loki is groggy and limp, tears now adding to the mess on the floor; the fact he's no longer resisting - even once she’s said the h-word - makes the whole situation a non-choice, really.

Sif takes Thor's hands and gently turns them palms-down. "And I think you should stay here," she adds solemnly, looking from his split, bloody knuckles to his face and back again. "Make yourself scarce; I'll call 9-1-1. No," she cuts him off as he opens his mouth to argue. “Let me handle this. You’ve done enough damage tonight already.

~

Thor, hoodie pulled as far over his face as possible, watches with the crowd gathered outside the little deli two doors down as the ambulance crew carries his brother - pale and small and still, in a heavy plastic collar that cups his jaw - out of the apartment building on an bright orange plastic board. They strap the board to the gurney, wrap Loki in blankets, and neatly load him into the back of their vehicle.

The driver shuts the metal doors with a dull thud. Unlike they do it on TV, he doesn't slap a bloody palm on the back of the rig. In fact, he doesn’t slap it at all; he just climbs aboard, after helping Sif into the passenger seat, and pulls out into traffic.

There aren’t any lights or sirens, either.

~

 _if the money i gave u isnt enuf call me,_ he texts, and then _and dont forget 2 tell them hes on methadone_

 _what part of *ill handle it* didnt u get,_ she asks in reply. He decides it’s best not to answer.

~

Thor calls in sick the next morning. It's not a lie, really; he hasn't slept at all, and he can't even keep water down.

He fumbles around for his wallet and digs out the card for the DA's office's Employee Assistance Program. EAP, the thing reads in big letters, right above the smiling face of a pretty mixed-ethnicity woman wearing a headset.

He tries to imagine himself telling her “um, I nearly killed my brother.”

Over the course of the morning he calls the number four or five times. Each time he chickens out and hangs up without speaking.

~

Late in the afternoon his phone rings. It's Sif. "They've agreed to discharge Loki to me because I have medical training," she says. Her voice echoes like she's in a giant tin can. "They actually wanted to keep him at least until tomorrow, but he seems really agitated about it."

That comes as no surprise - Loki, for all his weirdness, hates being out of control. Thor thinks again of hitting his brother and cringes, stomach lurching.

"-told them he has no insurance, so they are making an exception," she's explaining into the phone.

"Where are you," Thor grits out. It's the best he can do.

~

Her keys are on the coffee table, just like she said they were; Sif really does think of everything. He goes to pick them up in her car, precisely as instructed. He's not in a position to be arguing right now.

~

They meet Thor at Patient Discharge, Sif with her hair up in a messy knot and Loki wrapped in a blanket, pale and wan, sitting in a too-big wheelchair. The transporter is a big guy, silent and unsmiling. Thor keeps his gloves on, glad for once for the early spring chill – he doesn’t need anyone seeing his hand and putting two and two together.

"You're a mess," he tells Loki. It's not the best thing to say, probably, but it’s true; Loki’s black hair hangs in dirty strings and his cheek is yellow with Betadine above a lumpy white dressing. His lips are puffy and chapped, liberally smeared top and bottom with something slick and greasy-looking, and he has huge dark circles under his eyes.

"Nnn," Loki says in return. He doesn't look angry anymore; just worn out, and resigned, and a little high.

~

After they get back to the apartment and mostly-carry Loki upstairs, they park their patient carefully in one of the oversized, soft chairs and Sif gives Thor an comprehensive course in wound care. Loki, it seems, has both been given some external wiring (under the dressing) and had his jaw wired shut. He bares his teeth obligingly after Sif gives him another dose of pain medication, letting her show Thor the shiny screws and wires. Around the screws, Loki’s gums look red and sore.

The whole arrangement looks like a medieval torture device. Thor blinks and swallows hard, twice, willing his head to stop spinning.

Sif laughs. “Suck it up, coward. We need to get through this, before you make me late to work.”

There is quite a collection of stuff: saline to rinse with; little vials of antibiotics and pain relievers ( _Tramadol_ , Sif explains when Thor quietly asks, _because it’s best for substance abusers,_ and then rolls her eyes when Thor gestures, shocked, towards Loki. _Oh, please,_ she huffs. _It’s not like he doesn’t know he is one_ ); a daunting array of syringes and wipes and pads and gauze and tape. It's overwhelming.

Sif, unsurprisingly, shows no mercy. "Loki will be able to take care of all of this on his own in a few days. Right now, though, he needs assistance… and that means you need to help him. I'll stop by after work tomorrow morning to check on things," she adds, turning to leave. She pauses at the door, not looking back. "That fake ID came in pretty handy last night, you know?"

And just like that that, she's gone.

The door creaks closed behind her.

~

Loki’s complicated evening care regimen exhausts them both. When Thor, sweaty and more than a bit smelly himself, asks "do you want me to wash your hair," he's incredibly relieved (and then just as incredibly guilt-stricken) when Loki shakes a careful little _no_.

"Thoo thiurt."

 _Too tired._ Well, that makes two of them. "Tomorrow, then," Thor promises as he gently carries his brother to bed. Loki is asleep before Thor even finishes tucking him in.

Thor kisses him on the forehead anyway. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, then kisses Loki’s face again.

~

Exhausted as he is, Thor can't sleep. It's a little after midnight when he calls the EAP hotline again. This time, when a woman answers, he clears his throat.

This time, too, he doesn't hang up. Instead he says "I'm interested in hearing about what you might have for anger management" in the calmest, most professional-sounding, least shaky voice he can manage.


End file.
